Page 44 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“Who’swe?” Lucian says. “I’mdefinitelytelling the attic story later.”
Clément turns to me, eyes crinkling with a smile that’s still a little breathless. “Ignore them. They think they’re charming.”
I bite my lip, trying not to smile back. “You think you have the exclusive rights to charming?”
His grin widens. “Not think.Know.Now let’s go somewhere there’s a little more air,” Clément says smoothly, gesturing toward the edge of the room.
Before I can answer, Weston whistles low. “Ooooh. Air. That’s what the kids are calling it these days,” and Lucian chuckles at the innuendo.
Clément ignores them and steps beside me, gently placing his free hand on the small of my back.
And I?—
I forget how to walk.
That one simple touch—that confident, careful,not even inappropriatetouch—is now the central nervous system of my entire evening.
The ballroom buzzes around us. Champagne flutes clink.Laughter breaks out near the bar. A jazz quartet plays a slow song near the stage, their instruments shimmering under warm lighting.
Someone’s perfume is too strong—vanilla and orange blossom—and a waiter nearly collides with us carrying a tray of crab cakes.
But all I can feel is his hand. It’s not evendoinganything. Just resting there in the spot at the base of my spine. My breathing is shallow and I’m suddenly grateful for the crowd so I don’t have to speak.
We weave through the crowd slowly, his arm guiding me with ease.
People nod as we pass. A couple of women do double takes. One of them is Mrs. Fishman, wearing the same smirk she used when she shot down my sidewalk budget proposal last fall.
We reach a quieter alcove near the far wall, just past the bar, where the lights are softer and the crowd thins to small groups sipping wine and murmuring about local politics, or team strategy, or whatever people talk about while pretending not to eavesdrop.
Clément releases my back as we stop, and I don’t realize how much tension I was holding until it’s gone.
Like a string just loosened.
“You good?” he asks, offering a lopsided smile as he takes a bite of cupcake and somehow makes it look like flirting.
I take a long breath, trying to ground myself in things that are nothim.Like marble floors. And ambient jazz. And the lingering aftershock of his palm between my shoulder blades.
“Fine,” I say. “Completely fine.”
Liar.
He grins again, as if he knows.
Clément gestures with a tilt of his head, cupcake now half-gone. “Come on. There’s a little garden outside the doors over here. The lights are nice. And it’s quieter.”
I follow, because apparently that’s what I do now, trail after French hockey players through crowded rooms while my common sense takes a nap.
He leads me toward the far end where tall doors open onto a covered terrace. The garden just beyond is lit by a canopy of tiny twinkling lights strung between slender trees like constellations that got tired of the sky and came down for a party.
The hum of the event fades as we step outside, the soft music and laughter muffled now.
Clément lets out a soft sigh, looking around like he’s just arrived at his destination. “Enfin,” he says under his breath. “Peace.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “That’s rich coming from someone who plays a violent sport in a freezing stadium in front of thousands of screaming fans.”
He glances at me sideways, his smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Exactly. That’s why I appreciate this.”
“What, the decorative landscaping?”
